


Coalescing

by knell



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Flirting, long descriptions of the drifter eating vietnamese-adjacent food, season of arrivals lore that i literally just invented out of the blue please do not @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knell/pseuds/knell
Summary: In the wake of the Pyramids making their sudden and ominous appearance across the solar system, Commander Zavala finds an unlikely ally in the depths of the Tower. The Drifter's willing to part with some useful information, for the right price.
Relationships: The Drifter/Zavala
Comments: 13
Kudos: 21





	Coalescing

This is the worst part of his job. 

By now, Zavala has a pretty good handle on all things Vanguard; he can corral even the most chaotic of guardians into something resembling competence, he can rebuild a society from the ashes of what it once was, he even manages to file his paperwork on time—and all before breakfast. 

But this… 

He squares his shoulders, tightens his grip on the datapad, projecting the outward appearance of the Titan Vanguard everyone expects from him. As he descends the steps into the annex of the Tower, it's a testament to his strength that he doesn't turn right back around and shirk his duties onto the first person he sees.

With everything that's happened, Ikora had been adamant that they double down on security this time, and he couldn’t agree more. No more surprise attacks, no more infiltrations; they need to know everything that's happening in the Tower before it has a chance to crumble down around them again, quite literally. So when the Drifter had moved in, it hadn't been a secret. With Ikora's spy network and the loyalty of the staff on the Vanguard's side, they had seen him coming before he'd even wormed his way in.

Zavala had marched up to him less than a week after his arrival, but he's a hard one to crack; whatever he's up to down there, it seems even the guardians doing his bidding are largely unaware of his true intentions. Even so, there's nothing he or Ikora can do about his presence. His gambit is good for morale, as Shaxx had mentioned, and at this point, were they to remove him, Zavala is very aware he'd have a flock of very angry guardians on his hands. It's in no one's best interest for him to sow discontent among his own people, personal feelings aside.

And so here he is, heavy boots echoing down the rickety stairs toward the last of his newly-appointed monthly check-ups. He considers stopping by to see Ada-1 first, but selfishly, he knows it will do wonders for his stress levels to wash his visit to the Drifter down with Ada's much more palatable presence afterward. He sighs as he passes the long hallway leading to the gunsmith's chamber, and focuses on the sour taste in his mouth as he approaches his ultimate destination.

Not dissimilar from last time, Zavala strides into the flickering room with purpose. It's dim, the stale air heavy, alive with equal parts Light and Dark. His footsteps announce his presence, but it isn't until he steps into the unsteady beam of the fluorescents that he can clearly see the Drifter, hunched over a monitor, and a guardian leaning against his table, clearly chatting him up. Zavala narrows his eyes, and the guardian's grow about three sizes in diameter when they see him.

"I—er—" The exo gathers themself and rushes quickly past him, muttering a hushed, "Sorry, sir," as they leave, snickering ghost in tow.

As the hurried footsteps fade away, Drifter turns at last, the contraption behind him casting warping shadows that compete with the glow from his monitor. He closes whatever he'd been looking at on its screen, a bemused expression on his face.

"You here to see little ol’ me? Again? People're gonna talk, cue ball."

 _Already._ Zavala forces his annoyance down with practiced ease. _Fifteen seconds and already—_

"What is it this time? Not business, I hope."

"Rest assured, if I am down here, it’s business." He holds out the datapad. Drifter, lounging lazily against the metal railing behind him, briefly casts his eyes down at it, and then slowly back up. "As per the new security protocol, Tower vendors are required to sign off on a monthly status report. Of course, if you've noticed anything… untoward in your time down here, you should notify Ikora or myself immediately, but any concerns that aren't urgent are to be brought to my attention during these monthly visits."

Drifter makes a sound between a grunt and a laugh as he stands up to his full height, taking the datapad at last. He skims it for a moment, expression unreadable. Zavala casts his eyes around this… hovel, for lack of a better word. In the silence, he can hear a thick, electric hum from all around, the ominous creak of metal as it echoes in this largely empty space.

"' _Inappropriate use, the harnessing of, or other notable misconduct involving the negative energy cultivated by the enemies of the Last City and its citizens, also colloquially known as The Darkness._ ' Bit of a mouthful, don't you think?"

Zavala uncrosses his arms, frowning. "I think it gets the point across rather succinctly."

He only hums in response, scrolling idly down the screen. "What should I consider as _misconduct_ then?"

"If anyone would know, it'd be you."

This time, he laughs deep from the belly, making a big show of it. He sighs as he sobers, a little smirk playing on his lips. “You guardians. You really think the world works like that? So… black and white?” Drifter shakes his head and looks down at the datapad in his hands. He signs it with a flourish, but doesn’t hand it back. “Let me tell you a little secret, Mister Bureaucracy: I ain’t the bad guy here. Well, not the worst one, anyway.”

“I know exactly who you are,” Zavala bites back, temper rising despite himself. “Turning Lightbearers from the Light, encouraging corruption. People like you are dangerous, to yourself and to humanity as a whole.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not encouragin’ nothin', all I do’s open some eyes. Sure, and I make a quick buck on the side. Ain’t no crime in that.” He steps in a little too close for comfort. Zavala holds his ground and scowls down at him. “But that’s _your_ problem: you think there’s one right way to do things.” Drifter shrugs, careless as he presses the datapad to the titan’s chest; he glares for a moment longer before grabbing it from under his fingertips. “Way I see it, you and I could be _quite_ a team. But I know you’re too scared to ever let that happen.”

If he could frown any deeper, he would. _Scared?_ Zavala isn't too thick-skulled to admit fear, but the only thing he's feeling now is a deep-seated contempt. If the Drifter wants to team up, he must have ulterior motives stacked higher than the Tower itself. "What could _you_ possibly have to offer _me_?"

He grins now, sideways, back to lounging against the guardrail. “Hey, I’ve got plenty to offer. Depends what you’re in the market for.” Were it possible, Zavala would swear he could feel his blood beginning to boil as the Drifter eyes him leisurely up and down.

“I’m leaving.”

“All right, all right, listen,” he begins, disappointment giving way to amusement, “I’ve got contacts all over the damn place, and not spies either. Can’t trust those sneaky types. I’m talkin’ real people motivated by real things. Got a guy in the Tangled Shore—you know it?”

Zavala clenches his fist on the datapad and feels the screen crack. “Of course.”

“The guy’s lousy with Fallen intel, I mean just dripping with it,” Drifter continues, waving a hand through the air. “Turns out they know some real _fascinatin’_ things about those friendly little Pyramids up there; things I reckon ol’ Moondust wouldn’t mind knowin’ too.”

The unfamiliar name gives him pause. “Eris?” Zavala frowns again; he hadn’t known they were acquainted, though he shouldn’t be surprised given the nature of Eris’ work. If ever there was an anomaly to be studied, the man before him was it. “You’ve been withholding valuable information? Why—?”

“Like I said: real people motivated by real things. You want me to make it worth your while, you better start butterin’ me up, cue ball.”

Drifter is suddenly looking very punchable. Zavala closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, crackles of electric energy arcing off of his fingers as he shakes out his fist, sets the datapad aside so he doesn’t completely ruin it. _Information first_ , the quickly waning reasonable part of his brain says, _and then maybe we punch him after_. “What do you want,” he says, amusement and patience run dry.

“Hm. All this yappin’s got me workin’ up a thirst.” He cuts his gaze back to Zavala, a spark in his eye. “Say… dinner and a drink.”

“That’s your price?” Zavala sizes him up, suspicious. “Just a meal?”

“Sure, but don’t think you can buy me with none o’ that cheap gruel upstairs. Big hotshot guy like you’s gotta be pretty loaded, right? Wine ‘n dine me.”

  


* * *

  


The trip to the City is arduous. Drifter’s refusal to transmat down was almost a deal-breaker, but considering the information on the line, Zavala knew he couldn’t back out of this one. Doing so would be as good as resigning from his post.

So he clenches his jaw and bears it. The bustle and noise of the bazaar dies as if someone had flipped a switch the moment the sunlight welcomes them; a hunter turns in his chair like his head’s on a swivel, mouth full of ramen as he gawks at their passage. Ikora’s eyes find his instantly, and Zavala gives her a pained, near-imperceptible shake of his head that he’s sure she’ll understand; she rolls her eyes and turns back to the attendant at her side.

Drifter practically drinks it up. The fact that he’s daring to be seen outside of the annex is one thing, but to be strutting shamelessly alongside the Titan Vanguard? Even the guardians and civilians who had all but signed onto the Drifter’s team, as it were, couldn’t seem to believe what they were seeing.

When they step out of the elevator on the ground floor (a painfully long trip), Drifter sucks in a huge, deep breath, taking his time admiring the sights. As if he were stuck in the Tower; as if he couldn’t leave whenever he pleased and Zavala wouldn’t thank him for it.

Without the shade of the Tower’s many canopies and banners, the sun beats down on the City with more tenacity, a cool breeze winding through the buildings to ward off any excessive heat. The streets here in the merchant’s district are packed tight, shops and homes cobbled high out of the ruins of what had been destroyed in the Red War; it isn’t ideal, but Zavala knows to count his blessings. He still has teams of guardians out here, joining the effort to rebuild the City every day, but there’s only so much they can do. Small raiding parties had been pilfering supplies from the field, which normally wouldn’t be an issue at all for even the most inexperienced fireteam, but the arrival of the Pyramids had stretched them thinner than he’d like to admit.

“Where we headin’?” Drifter shatters the silence, glancing around at the carts and storefronts half-curiously like he’s really never been here before.

“This was your idea, you tell me.”

A contemplative pause as they continue walking idly down the road. The smell of fried food and incense filters from every side, the low, steady burbling of conversation and bartering filling the quiet between them. Up above, ships take off and land, cutting through the darkening sky like stars; the Traveler spins in dizzying orbit around herself, dormant as ever and glowing.

The Drifter stops at a corner just before the more residential part of the City begins, peeks into a dim restaurant between two open-air stalls; on either side, patrons sit with their backs to the two of them, quietly talking over bowls of steaming phở or ordering to-go. Drifter looks back at him over his shoulder and Zavala nods, uncaring. He’d been expecting something more expensive considering the complaints earlier, but as he watches the other man duck into the low entrance of the shop, he supposes street food probably suits his tastes just fine.

Inside, most of the tables are empty, which is for the best if they’re to talk business. The lighting is low and hazy from the heat of the kitchen and the thick wooden blinds, half-drawn over dusty windows. In the back, a staircase leads up to what is presumably a family home, the muffled sound of a television drifting down through the ceiling. 

They’re seated and brought drinks and menus immediately, which Zavala politely declines and the Drifter begins poring over before their server can even step away. Once she takes his lengthy order, Drifter leans forward on his elbows.

“Ever been here before?” He gestures to the room at large with his chin, tapping the table with a finger.

“Can’t say I have. Meals are typically brought to my office at the appropriate times. I can’t afford to leave my post,” he says pointedly, letting the impatience leak into his voice. It either goes right over Drifter’s head or he ignores it entirely.

Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smiles crookedly, shakes his head down at the table. “Yeesh. When’s the last time you let loose, huh?”

Zavala raises an eyebrow in return, not deigning to respond.

“Right…”

Their server returns just as the silence really begins to settle in, Zavala doing his best to thank her with his eyes. She sets an appetizer dish out in the center of the table, pushing the little candle out of the way to make room for the long arrangement of spring rolls and neatly folded wontons.

Zavala hadn’t been sure what to expect, but he watches the Drifter eat his fill and then some. 

And then some more. 

The appetizer isn’t even gone before he’s ordering another one, and a side dish to go with it. Their server sets out a selection of dipping sauces and dressings with the lotus root salad she brings next, and his eyes widen with something nearing glee as he sheds his gloves and takes his time sampling each one.

Watching him, you’d think he’d never eaten a proper meal in his life. 

After a long, very long few minutes of chopsticks clicking, Zavala rolls his eyes and speaks up. “Look, can we talk business already? I have more important things to be doing.”

Drifter looks up from his array of plates and bowls, down at the empty table in front of Zavala. “Not hungry?”

“I’ve eaten.”

He shrugs, takes a huge, deep drink, and then wipes his mouth as he leans back in his chair. If he could, his feet would be kicked up on the table. “Sure. What’s up?”

Zavala feels his eye twitch “The intel. Your Tangled Shore informant. Pyramids.”

“Ahh, right right right.” With effort, he pulls away the left side of his robes, retrieving a file from within. He holds it out across the table, but as Zavala makes to accept it, Drifter snaps it away at the last second, forcing eye contact. “You know…” He smirks at Zavala’s sigh. “I get lotsa fun little things like this on my desk every couple days or so. This could be a working relationship, a real thing, if you catch my drift.”

It’s true, there’s only so much information Ikora and her Hidden can procure safely these days. With the empty spot in the Vanguard weighing heavy on both of their shoulders even still, it’s harder to feel comfortable sending scouts out too far into open space. Leaving the City susceptible to another attack is something Zavala is strictly not willing to do, and with what little they know about the Pyramids, risking the capture of guardians or spies would be a losing maneuver. Even their regular off-world sources have been wary of making contact, and Zavala can’t say he blames them. These days, the very air has a tinge of nervous energy; everyone is waiting for something to happen, something worse than before, something they have no way of preparing for.

If this information from the Drifter proves useful, he supposes a contract with him would be necessary. The only other person so closely tied to the Darkness in such a way is Eris, and he knows Ikora wouldn’t allow it. After everything she has been through, he couldn’t ask it of her.

Zavala lets out a breath as he comes to a decision. Despite everything, the Drifter is good at what he does, if the gossip is anything to go by.

He offers the file again, wiggles it around as if to tempt. This time, his fingers graze Zavala’s hand as he takes it. The commander scoffs, ignoring both the touch and the amused grin from across the table. “This better be worth it.”

“What? Like it’s so bad to leave your office for one night?” He goes back to his food, twirling a chopstick as he hums and haws over what to eat next. “I know you get out even less than I do, ‘n that’s sayin’ somethin’. You should consider this a favor. Two favors, matter a fact,” he says, gesturing lazily to the file as Zavala lifts the cover.

He glances over the first few pages, handwritten notes and photographs of the Pyramids, enhanced to better see their structure, the strange lights that emanate from within, and the inky Darkness that seems to hang like static in the air around them. Seeing their discordant silhouettes makes Zavala’s blood turn icy, even as he skims the page for keywords.

Drifter watches him until he loses patience waiting for Zavala to get to the meat of it. “Basically,” he says, and then again, leaning in and quieter this time, “Basically, my guy’s been all over, right? Sussin’ out the locals, as it were. Speaks a bit of Eliksni—you know any?”

Zavala shakes his head, brow furrowed. That had always been more Cayde’s realm.

“Well, anyway, he’s been out in the ol’ Cosmodrome, says he’s seen signs of a new Fallen House. Chatter on the radios, weird symbols,” and here he reaches over and flips the pages, pointing to a photo of a wall with a sigil carved into it. A little further down, the same sigil, painted in thick black strokes on a scrap of fabric, hung like a banner from a rusted street sign. “Mostly theories, but he says these’re the same signs he saw back before Six Fronts, when the Devils first started making messes for you guardians.”

A new House. Just what they needed. Zavala closes the file, just to be safe. “Do we have a name for these Fallen?”

Chewing another mouthful of his entree, the Drifter shakes his head. “Nah. Some of what they’re sayin’s got no English equivalent, far as my guy knows. I’m sure you’ve got some bored warlocks up there who could find an old translation. Or just name ‘em yourself.” He shrugs and licks his fingers clean, eyes not leaving Zavala’s for a moment.

“Aside from the timing, how is this tied to the Pyramids?” he asks, tapping the closed file with a knuckle. “I need a reason before I send any forces out to the Cosmodrome; guardians haven’t been active out there for years. It’s peaceful land, as far as our scouts have reported.”

He takes his time selecting a bite of food, a citrusy rice dish with mint leaves and peppers. When he responds, it’s with a full mouth. “They’re leaving offerings.”

“Offerings? What do you mean?”

Drifter swallows and washes it down with a deep drink. “Weirdest thing—a suspicious amount of ketches comin’ and goin’ lately. Moondust an’ I know the Fallen have been hijacking stray blooms of Darkness from Io, Titan—the scales, y’know. My guy thinks they’re hauling it all back to the Cosmodrome for… well, listen to this. He can’t get too close, but one day he’s patrolling near a busted old satellite station and what’s he find?”

A too-long pause, and Zavala gives in, rolling his eyes. “Just tell me.”

“Ghosts!” He looks around and adjusts his volume again. “Ghosts, with their Light sucked right out, I’m talkin’ surgical precision. Not just dead, little hollow things either. Ghosts stuffed full of Darkness. A neat little pile of ‘em, wrapped up with one of those banners I showed you. My guy goes back the next day for another look, and they’re gone. Since then, he’s seen a few more, but still no idea who’s doing pick-ups or when.”

Zavala’s stomach flips, and a sour taste rises in the back of his mouth like bile. “That’s…”

“Fucking crazy?” he supplies, poking at his salad.

“Yes.”

“There’s more about it in the file, but that’s pretty much the nitty gritty.” Drifter waves his hand flippantly as he leans in on his elbow, pushing food around like he’s not quite ready to stop eating, although he’s had enough servings for three by now. “So? How’s that? Worth your precious time, I take it.”

Instead of responding, he looks around for their server. She comes over with some empty takeout boxes and an amused expression as she takes in Drifter’s assortment of half-empty plates, the barren table and untouched drink before Zavala. “Any dessert?”

Drifter perks up, turning to look expectantly at Zavala. He waves his hand noncommittally, tuned out entirely as he places an order to-go, idly paying the bill while his mind swims with the new information. He needs to return as soon as possible and find Ikora, try to get ahold of Asher, Ana even—anyone more research-minded than himself. He can’t do anything tactically until they have more information, which means they’ll need to start deploying fireteams to the Cosmodrome, as much as he’s reluctant to do so.

All the way back through the City, he’s silent with worry. If the Pyramids are making Ghosts… that, coupled with what the Young Wolf had reported from their venture into the grounded Pyramid on the moon, and with Eris’ own theories… they could be looking at something far more concerning than he had ever considered. Mirror images of Guardians? Like the nightmare-apparitions from the moon, beings of Darkness, absences of hope and Light cultivated into something relentless and violent. 

Still, even this is conjecture. Nothing confirmed. He shouldn’t work himself up over this until he has a chance to read the whole report over twice.

The elevator lets them off at the top floor. The Tower at night, lit by the Traveler and the diffused glow of hanging lanterns is a familiar and welcoming sight. With the file in his hand, Zavala turns with his mouth open, ready to excuse himself, but Drifter beats him to it.

“Here,” he says, picking a takeout box off the top of his truly comical stack of leftovers, holding it out. He shrugs as Zavala cautiously accepts it, unclad fingers skimming along his hand once more. “Consider it thanks.”

“... I paid for this.”

Drifter blinks, as if he’d forgotten. “Even so—whatever fancy lunch you get delivered to your office’s probably cold by now, right? Not doin’ the whole of humanity any favors if you start skippin’ meals.”

Zavala opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure what to say. The smile he offers is guarded, confused. “Thanks,” he eventually settles on, lifting both the file and the box as he nods.

For a brief moment, Drifter looks embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Sure. Just make sure you put that intel to good use, huh? And, hey, let me know about _us_ ,” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Write up a contract or whatever. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve yet; things I can do that’ll blow your mind.”

Almost involuntarily, another sigh leaves his lungs. Truthfully, though he wouldn’t admit it, Zavala is grateful for the distraction from his own wandering brain. He shakes his head, reluctantly bemused. “I’ll be sure to consider it.”

“Don’t be a stranger, stranger.”

“You’ll see me in exactly one month for another check-up; if we meet again before then it’ll be too soon.”

Drifter grins a familiar, crooked grin. “Ooh. I love it when you talk like that—makes me feel special.”

With no polite response to that, Zavala bites his tongue and turns on his heel to leave. Before he can get far, the Drifter calls out to him once more.

“Oh, and actually, I’ll be seein’ ya tomorrow—you forgot your little survey datapad down in my office.”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway. i really took this so seriously but i need you to please understand that this is a joke.


End file.
